


Eyes That Burn Like Cigarettes

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bickering, F/M, Hormones, Kissing, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV First Person, Possessive Dean Winchester, critique of assisted living facilities and how that makes our dear OFC feel about her own mortality, not regency) sex, period (menstrual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: She’s had a crush on Dean since the moment she met him, but age differences and attitudes seem to set them on edge with each other. That is, until one random morning on the road.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

“Christ,” Dean groans. “You gonna put pants on before we leave?”

“Lay off,” I say, smoothing the edge of my bottom lip before turning from the mirror and capping my lipstick. “It’s called a skort, _Dad_. It has shorts underneath — see?”

I flip the skirt up and Dean freaks out.

“ _GAH!_ ” he exclaims and covers his eyes.

I roll my eyes. I’ve had a crush on Dean since the moment I laid eyes on him six months ago, and this over-protective big brother act is wearing thin.

“Sammy,” he whines, eyes pleading. “Will you look at what she’s wearing, please.”

Sam gets that deer-in-headlights look then the why-are-you-like-this-Dean look then shakes his head and sighs.

“Dean-” Sam starts, but Dean ignores him — probably doesn’t like his _tone_ or something.

Dean turns his attention back to me. “You can’t go interviewing people in a _cheerleading_ uniform,” he rants, motioning wildly in my general direction.

“Cheer-” I begin to argue but realize it’s a futile attempt to get him to understand women’s fashion _or_ comfort. “You know what? I’m not arguing with you.”

I turn back to the mirror to adjust my high, sleek ponytail and take one last sweep of my outfit.

Cute t-shirt, sport skirt, Vans. Comfy.

“The skirt is supposed to be this short, Dean, so you can suck my dick,” I say as I turn toward him, and Dean’s face is _priceless_.

Sam bursts into laughter and Dean gawks at me.

“Ex _cuse_ me?!?” he exclaims

I ignore his outrage because I really am 100% over him treating me like I’m 12.

“ _I_ am going to research anyway,” I continue. “I don’t feel like talking to people so have fun without me.”

I breeze past him toward the door as he stares me down.

Dean is movie-star handsome and pretty much a perfectly proportioned male specimen. That said, he’s made it more than clear that I’m the annoying kid sister at best, so I gave up trying to impress him a long-ass time ago.

Now I just try to keep him from having a coronary every time I show some leg.

“Listen, smartass,” he growls. “You’re not gettin’ out of this that easy.”

“Like research is easy,” I huff, with my hands on my hips and a growl of my own in my chest.

Dean’s eyes automatically drop to my tits and a flush pinkens his cheeks.

“What?” I snap.

When I look down, I realize that my stance has my not-quite-cropped t-shirt ruched around my chest in a way that accentuates my thin, delicately cut yoga bra underneath — and the way that bra… _supports_ me.

I slowly drag my gaze back up to find Dean quickly licking his lips and squeezing his eyes and fists shut tight.

My own eyes go wide and dart to Sam, who’s smirking like a 12-year-old at a peep show watching this all go down. Then I haul my gaze back to Cranky McCrabberton.

He’s grumbling and fidgeting, checking his pockets and stomping around the room. He does this every time he’s annoyed with me and my lipstick or hair or, like today, my short skirt. Sam always acts like it’s some kind of surprise — as if Dean isn’t an irritable bitch 24/7.

“Could you at least put a bra on?” he asks before turning his back to me and grabbing his Fed jacket.

I slowly let it all sink in.

Maybe he’s just irritable and distracted around _me_. Maybe this is like those schoolyard pranks where the boy pulls the girl’s hair because he likes her. But I’ve watched Dean with women and he’s velvety smooth, right?

The thought that Dean could actually be into me has me seeing things from a very different angle. It’s as if I’m seeing _him_ for the first time.

“…there’s rules, sweetheart,” he talks down to me as he shrugs into his jacket and adjusts his tie. “You can’t just waltz around like there ain’t. Believe me, I don’t enjoy dressing up like White Collar Warner, but we’ve got a job to do-”

“Okay,” I say, and Dean starts.

I never let him have his way without dragging him, so he must be shocked. I wanna test my theory, though. If I’m nice to him, if we can get along for a bit, maybe I can glean some evidence that he actually likes me.

I lock eyes with him and my insides flip at what I see.

He’s irritated, yeah, but he’s also breathing heavily, licking and biting his lips, and his pupils are a little too dilated for this brightly lit motel room.

“Okay, what?” he asks and his voice is low and softer than it has been all morning.

“I’ll change and go with you,” I reply just as softly. “Just gimme a minute.”

Dean’s chest rises and falls heavily and the air crackles.

For a few beats, he holds my gaze. It seems like a challenge and I’m not sure what his point is. Then he nods and his shoulders relax.

“Okay.”

I nod in return then look to where Sam is sitting quietly, eyebrows raised.

Before questioning things further, I turn to my garment bag and retrieve my Fed get-up, kick off my Vans, and slip inside the bathroom before closing the door.

I draw a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror.

So much just happened, and my mind reels with what to do next. Should I broach the topic with him in the car? Should I test the waters? Should I keep my fucking mouth shut and hands to myself?

“Ugh!” I exclaim and shake my head before swaddling myself in my wrap dress and stepping into my black wedge sandals.

I leave the jewelry and make-up, not wanting to chance Dean snagging on something else, or we’ll be here all day. I decide to just play it cool and let him lead.

I step out of the bathroom and Dean’s waiting for me by the door. His eyes quickly skim my body from head to toe and back again. His nostrils flare and I shiver. I feel pretty dumb for reading that reaction of his as one of distaste instead of desire.

After grabbing my handbag with my wallet and phone, I join him at the door.

As I approach he stands straighter and more solid with every step I take.

Something has shifted and not just my point of view. Dean is much less fidgety and awkward. Maybe it’s because my tits are better disguised now.

“Ready?” he asks with cool nonchalance as if he didn’t just have a meltdown over a tennis skirt and the air between us isn’t hyper-charged.

“Yeah,” I answer then glance at Sam.

His eyebrows are still shot to the ceiling but he has the good sense to keep the words I know he’s dying to say from tumbling out of his gaping mouth.

Dean and I make our way to the car in overloaded silence. There’s a kind of resolve to his every move as he settles into the driver’s seat and starts the car. He looks over at me as Baby rumbles and lets his eyes roam.

“Since when do you give in so easy?” he asks, pulling his gaze back up to the rearview mirror and carefully backing out of the parking spot before turning onto the gravel road.

“What makes you think I’m givin’ in?” I ask.

Dean rolls his eyes and sighs at the road ahead. “Our little spats usually last at least 20 minutes longer than that one. Somethin’ stalled you out.”

I feel my face flush and I bite my lip from smiling then look out the window with a shrug.

We’re quiet for a few minutes until he breaks the silence.

“I’m not tryna be your dad,” he says.

I inhale slow and deep then let it out. “Okay,” I say and sneak a peek at his profile.

He clenches his jaw and tilts his head. “And I’m sorry for bein’ so bitchy about your clothes and whatnot.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “It’s none of my business.”

I watch him as my stomach flips and my heart flutters.

“It’s okay, Dean. You’re just lookin’ out for me.”

He turns to look me in the eyes and searches my face. His eyes are hot and he seems to be holding something back.

He looks back at the road. “Yeah,” he says.

We don’t speak again until we reach our destination, and then it’s all business. The tension between us loosens slightly as we focus on the job, but I’m flustered.

He catches me staring at him twice. It’s just all so new. I’ve spent months hiding my feelings for Dean, and now I can openly _feel_ them. I can’t stop wondering, though, if he’ll keep me at arm’s length anyway, even though the cat’s finally out of the bag.

Dean’s a good 12 years older than I am. It would be questionable if I were 18 and he was 30, but I’m 28; I’m not a child, and I know what I want. The fact that I can let my front brain contemplate the possibilities of being with him has me at once giddy and a wreck.

After our interviews, Dean asks if I’m hungry.

“Starving,” I answer. “I forgot to eat this morning.”

“That why you’re so keyed up?” he shoots me an amused smirk as we take the block on foot to the diner. “Too much coffee on an empty stomach?”

I glare at him. He’s teasing me. He knows why I’m keyed up.

“Yeah, exactly,” I answer and roll my eyes.

Dean chuckles and opens the door for me and I slip past him inside.

We’re seated pretty quickly and place identical orders. I watch Dean make notes on the interviews we conducted. His letters are blocky and concise and he scratches everything out deftly.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask, and Dean pauses his pencil momentarily before bringing his gaze up to meet mine.

“Shoot,” he says, acting casual, but I watch his throat bob as he swallows thickly.

“This morning…” I start and Dean tenses.

“I told you I was sorry,” he says.

“I know, I just wanna know why.” I wonder aloud more than ask him.

Dean shifts uncomfortably then tucks his pencil into his notebook and slips them both inside his suit jacket.

“Why, what?” he asks, giving me his full attention, neatly clasping his hands together on the table between us.

I huff a small, anxious laugh. He isn’t going to make this easy.

“Why you’re sorry, for starters,” I explain. “Why you care so much about how short my skirt is or how much lipstick I wear.”

I need to hear him say it.

Dean chews his lip before answering. “I guess I’m protective of you,” he answers finally.

I nod. “Like an older brother?” I ask, vying for the utmost clarity.

He blinks slowly and leans forward, holding my wary gaze with that signature confidence and intent that makes my knees weak.

“No,” he answers plainly, and I forget how to breathe. “I don’t want other men looking at you. I don’t even want _Sam_ looking at you the way I look at you.”

I gasp for air and shudder. Dean doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t look away.

“Why?” I breathe.

“Because I don’t like to share,” he answers as our server arrives with our plates and drinks.

Dean leans back into his seat and slowly drags his gaze from mine, leaving me stunned and vibrating.

“Two bacon cheeseburgers, two cokes, and two fries,” she announces.

“Thanks,” Dean replies with a killer smile and she winks before leaving us to it.

Just this morning, I had him a confused mess by simply putting my hands on my hips, and now he’s all cocksure and composed and I’m the confused one.

Dean flips his tie over his shoulder to dig into his meal.

“Dean,” I call his attention, and he looks up at me but doesn’t halt his motions.

“Eat,” he says. “We’ll talk in the car.”

I can barely get my food down but I do as I’m told as my mind races.

I’ve never felt quite like this. I’m used to taking Dean’s orders in the field, not in the context of a potential relationship with him — not in the context that he’s telling me to eat my food and assuring me that we’ll talk about him _not sharing me_ later.

_God._

Thankfully, not talking while eating gives me a boost of confidence and the ability to think about what to say once he welcomes it. I imagine all the ways I can try to further clarify what he really means and how we might move forward.

Will he want to move forward? How long has he felt this way? Was he intentionally holding me off, or did he think I didn’t feel the same way because I’m always arguing with him?

Once we’re buckled into the front seat of Baby again, I can’t hold my tongue any longer.

“So, why now?” I ask, feeling my face flush anew with the nerves of execution.

Dean grins wryly. “You and that mouth,” he mutters. “You showed your hand, sweetheart. You’re such a little smartass but the second you saw me checking out your rack, you blushed like a schoolgirl and turned to mush.”

He eyes me sideways and I squirm under his scrutiny. “There it is again,” he says, reaching across the bench-seat to draw a small circle on my exposed knee with his fingertip. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

He pulls his hand back and grips the steering wheel again, shifting himself. My eyes drop to his lap and even inside the darkened car, I can see he’s hard.

This back and forth is exhilarating. I decide to push the envelope a bit and slowly hike my dress up to show Dean a little more thigh.

He said he didn’t like other men looking at me the way he looks at me, so I’m gonna let him look

Dean glances my way and groans. “Slow down, princess,” he says, but he can’t stop darting his eyes to what I’m doing with my hands.

“Gotta make up for lost time, Dean,” I tease, trailing fingertips over my collarbone and breastbone and along the edges of the dress neckline. “Months wasted. And for what?”

“You called me _old man_ last month,” he says pointedly. “Kinda kills the mood.”

I stop abruptly and sit up straight. “You called me _a brat_ last week, so I think we’re even.”

Dean clears his throat and bites back a grin. “Fair enough.”

I settle back into my seat, toying with the hem of my dress, and feeling like a dipshit.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“For callin’ me old or bein’ a brat?” he asks, and I scoff.

“Are you serious right now?” I raise my voice.

“I was _kidding_. Too soon, I guess,” he says.

I slump back into my seat for the rest of the ride back to the motel. I yelled because I’m mad, and I’m mad because I’m bruised. I can’t help but feel like a child next to him since I’m already sorely lacking in the confidence department.

Maybe it’s me with the age issue and not him at all.

We pull into the motel lot, and he parks Baby in front of our door. I remain still as Dean unbuckles his seatbelt. He notices I‘m not getting out and stops from opening his door.

“Talk to me,” he says.

I shake my head. “Everything I say is wrong today.”

“I dunno. I kinda liked it when you said you’d go with me this morning,” he shrugs, and when I look him in the face he’s smiling and his eyes are sparkling.

I smile back, but I’m still feeling timid and uncertain. I need to know I’m not making a huge mistake.

“You think Sam’s in there?” I ask, nodding to the room we share.

I hope Sam’s not in there.

“I texted him when we left the diner to be gone in 10 minutes,” Dean answers, resting his eyes on mine.

“So we can be alone?” I ask.

He purses his lips and nods. “So we can be alone.”

“Okay, then,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Let’s go be alone.”

I breathe my way through climbing out of the car and not overthinking things. By the time I reach the door, Dean’s got it unlocked and is swinging it open for me.

Neither of us says much as Dean hangs his jacket up and I kick my shoes aside. When he turns to me, he’s cuffing his sleeves. I feel like I should be doing something other than staring at his thick forearms, but I can’t think of what it might be.

He walks toward me at a leisurely pace, and my skin breaks out in goosebumps. When he stops, mere inches in front of me, he’s towering over me with a roguish grin.

“You’re blushing,” he says, sliding one hand in his pocket and the other along my jaw.

He brushes a thumb from my mouth up over my cheekbone as his gaze drops to my lips.

“Your fault,” I murmur.

He nods almost imperceptibly. “We should talk, but I kinda just wanna kiss you.”

“Think we can do both?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

He slides a boot between my bare feet as his fingers wrap the nape of my neck. He looks down at me for a moment and I realize that everything is about to change forever.

As he dips in and his lips brush mine my breath stutters, and I grip his tie in one hand and skim the other into his short, soft hair.

He hums quietly and deepens the kiss, moves in a little closer, places one hand at the small of my back.

He’s _so gentle_ – not at all what I imagined he’d be like. I’m surprised but not disappointed because he’s still somehow overwhelming and consuming me with warmth and attention. The nuanced power is pure Dean.

We stand and sway, kissing, exploring. It feels like more than just kissing, though. It feels like more than hands over fully-clothed bodies and tongues slowly twisting. It feels like this means something, that it isn’t a stepping stone to something else.

I realize that I’m shaking when Dean pulls back and holds my face in his hands. “Y’ok?” he asked quietly.

I nod. “You’re just…” I swallow and shake my head. “This is all so much.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s sit. Use words.” He smiles before kissing me once more and leading me to the small couch where I’ve been sleeping.

I take a seat and Dean loosens his tie. “Want a beer?” he asks. “Somethin’ cold to sip on, somethin’ to do with your hands?”

“Were you a shrink in a past life?” I ask.

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “Just plenty of practice working through shit of my own. Beer?”

I smile and nod.

I do a little box breathing as he retrieves and opens two beers then returns to the tiny sofa. He hands me my drink and takes a seat with his broad back wedged against the corner. He looks sort of ridiculous trying to relax on this almost doll-like furniture.

He’s quietly watching me, so I start talking.

“I’ve had a crush on you since we met,” I say, not looking him in the eye. “And I thought you thought of me as a bratty kid.”

I look up at him and he’s watching me intently, eyes narrowed.

I could say a lot of snarky things about Dean, and I have. But the real meat of Dean is that he’s kind, strong, and he listens.

“So I’ve said a lot of stupid things. To protect myself? My feelings.”

Dean nods.

I draw in a deep breath. “Are you gonna say anything?” I ask nervously, taking a shaky sip of my beer.

Dean leans forward and sets his beer on the table and pauses before speaking.

“I thought it was just a crush,” he says, shrugging. “I figured you’d get over it once you were with us for a while.” He turns to look at me with a sad smile.

“But I didn’t,” I say, and he nods. “Today wasn’t really any different than any other day except I thought maybe I had a chance with you.”

Dean chuckles ruefully. “Sweetheart, you have always had a chance.” He leans back into the corner of the couch again.

I shake my head. “But you never-”

“Yeah, well…” He nibbles his top lip.

“Dean, why?” I ask. “If it’s not my age, then what is it?”

He scoffs dryly. “Not just age… it’s everything. I’m not _relationship material_ and you still have a whole life ahead of you.”

“So, why now?” I ask again. “You told me before in the car that I showed my hand like you just realized I liked you, and now you’re saying you’ve always known.”

He shakes his head. “Couldn’t help it anymore,” he says, turning to look me in the eyes. “Had to have you.”

My heart dances in my ribcage.

This isn’t cut and dry or simple; love never is, from what I’ve heard, but this is somehow more.

It’s more dangerous, it’s scarier, and I’ll probably get my heart and soul shredded and handed to me by this man; but I can’t deny that it’s all I want right now. I can’t think about anything else.

I swallow my fear and knee onto the couch, take the few short strides to reach him. He watches me, arms stretched across one couch arm and the back, and lets me lift my skirt and straddle his lap.

“I can’t promise anything,” he murmurs as he slowly wraps his arms around me and lets me kiss him.

“I don’t want promises,” I answer between licks and nips. “I just want you.”

Then Dean grips me close, stands, and crosses the room to his bed, kissing me deeply the whole way.


	2. Chapter 2

We did it.

The deed.

The horizontal mambo.

We hid the sausage – a few times.

Just to be sure, you know, that it was hidden and that we did it right.

And I’m here to say, we did it right.

Since the day I showed my hand, as it were, Dean and I have spent a lot of time getting to know each other in new and interesting ways.

He’s an angry sleeper, but he also likes to cuddle. I like more _modern_ rock music, but Dean’s been willing to listen. We both like chick-flicks and hide it from everyone but each other.

We like a lot of the same food and have taught each other a few tips to make those things even better. I’m getting him to branch out from whiskey and beer; he’ll even drink wine with me, he just never knew what to buy before.

Luckily, we both immensely enjoy sex.

I’m not shy about the number of partners or the kinds of things I’ve tried. I’ve never really dated; most of my sex life has been with friends or one-night stands. I’ve had kinky sex, group sex, outdoor sex, marathon sex, and drug-enhanced sex.

With Dean, it’s just _really fucking_ _good_ sex. In the six weeks we’ve been together, almost 24/7, I haven’t thought even once, ‘hey, maybe we should spice things up a little’ because we’re just that into exploring each other and the most basic acts.

One night, he went down on me for 30 minutes. I came three times, three different ways before he slid up between my thighs and missionary fucked me slow and steady until I came again then passed out in his arms.

I’d like to see that drummer from the Sundogs do _that_.

Another thing I’ve learned about Dean is that he doesn’t miss a thing. While I always knew he was observant, which is something that makes him a great hunter, I never knew just how much time he spent observing me.

“Alexis,” Dean looks down at me nibbling my cuticles to death as we walk toward the entrance of the nursing home.

When I look up at him, he’s cocked an eyebrow and a small smirk is playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Breathe, ok? We’re not stickin’ around for bingo and a jello mold; just here to ask a few questions.”

I drop my hands to my sides with a heavy sigh and straighten my fed jacket, evening my steps as my heels click the pavement.

Dean opens the door for me, and I walk through and wait for him to take the lead – anything to get my mind off the anxiety ricocheting around in my skull and my chest.

I don’t like hospitals or doctor’s offices, and I really don’t like assisted living facilities. Places that so plainly remind me of human fragility are not my favorite of destinations.

To top it off, it’s the third day of my period, and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, irritable, crampy, and I feel like a raw ball of fever and hormones.

When we reach the reception desk, Dean tells the young man that we’re with the FBI and have an appointment to speak with the director. He asks us to sign in and secures Visitor badges for us before calling the director to ask her to meet us outside the lounge.

“It smells like stale coffee and mothballs in here,” I stage-whisper, and Dean shoots me a look as he hands me a badge.

“Put the badge on and keep your mouth shut,” he mutters to me sideways, absentmindedly signing us both into the log.

I huff and shift my weight until he’s done scribbling on the pad and thanking the kid.

Dean gently clasps my elbow and leads me in the direction the receptionist indicated until we’re out of eyeshot. Then, he guides me down the next corridor and drags me inside an empty room.

He draws a deep breath as he wraps his giant hands around my shoulders and squeezes. I feel the calm wash over me immediately, and I exhale with him, long and slow.

“OK?” he asks, watching me catch my breath.

I nod in response. “Sorry,” I say with a final deep inhale.

Dean slides his hands down my arms to grip my hands, pulling one to his lips smoothly, calmly, and Dean-ly before pressing a kiss to each knuckle.

“’s’ok,” he says. “Old people freak you out, we can talk about that later, but I need you to focus right now.”

His voice is quiet and measured, and his eyes are wide with intent. I nod again, and Dean cracks an easy smile – the one that makes my insides twirl and my lungs flutter with a dreamy sigh.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs as he leans in to press his lips to my forehead, just like I hoped he would.

Once I’ve gathered some semblance of chill, we walk out of the empty room and back into the corridor. When we turn the next corner, we can see the director waiting for us about 20 yards ahead. As we approach her, I take a look around the lounge area.

There are groups of folks sitting at square, four-top, laminate tables, playing cards, talking over coffee, watching TV. It isn’t much different than your average coffee shop full of Xs, Ys, and Zs, except it’s brightly lit and feels plastic – sanitized and transitional.

It doesn’t feel like a place where friends congregate to share and comfort each other. It’s more like they’re all just passing the time until they die, which makes me feel like climbing out of my skin.

“Lex,” Dean’s voice startles me from the side, and I look up at him. “You wanna join us, or take in a few episodes of Matlock?”

I glare at him playfully before following them to tour the facility. I hang back as Dean does most of the talking. (We switch off with that. I assume he stepped into that role today because he suspects I’m hormonal with as emotionally unpredictable as I’ve been all morning.)

We spend about half an hour with the director then finally leave with no more information than with which we arrived.

“Well, that was a bust,” Dean says as we exit the outer double doors.

“I’m just glad we’re outta there,” I mutter with a slight shiver and inhale the fresh fall air.

“I bet,” he replies, tossing me a glance as he rounds the hood of the Impala. “Hungry?”

“Yeah, but can we get it to go – back to our room?” I ask, climbing into the passenger’s seat.

Dean slides behind the wheel and nods in agreement without question. “Biggerson’s?” he asks, and I don’t argue.

——-

Back at our hotel room, I quickly peel my work clothes off, pile my hair on top of my head, and get freshened up before putting on loose sweats and a tank top.

Dean and I eat in silence. I didn’t sleep very well last night, either, so I decide to lie down once I’ve finished my fries.

“You mind if I shut my eyes for a few?” I ask, standing and stretching as I stride toward the bed.

“Nah, babe, go ‘head,” he says, wiping his mouth before cleaning up our wrappers and empty cups.

I snag his utility jacket from the other bed to cover up before curling onto my side and closing my eyes.

Our little visit to the assisted living facility today reminded me of a lot of my vulnerabilities. In addition to not enjoying hospitals and the like, I’m afraid of a lot of things – tight spaces, going downhill fast, The Dark ™.

I don’t always say these things out loud because anyone I talk to regularly is either super fucking normal and afraid of normal things, or they’re hunters who fight the things that normal people are afraid of.

But isn’t that what we’re meant to do as humans? Be seen and see each other? Find our people? Love those people and support each other? Share our innermost hopes and dreams and fears?

As I’m pondering the meaning of life in my hormonally fevered state, Dean presses up behind me, wrapping me in welcome warmth. He drapes one arm over my waist and tucks his hand up between my own until they’re clasped together just under my chin. I involuntarily gasp and sigh when he slips one knee between my legs and rests his cheek on the crown of my head.

“Wanna talk about anything?” he asks quietly, once I’ve begun to relax back against him.

“I’m just cranky,” I say, burrowing into the pillows lying under our heads.

Dean hums but doesn’t speak or otherwise interrupt, so I take my time working my thoughts into words.

“It’s like they’re all just waiting ‘til their numbers’re up. And everything feels tense – that lack of permanence and connectivity.”

Dean inhales long and slow through his nose and tucks me in closer. “Nothin’s forever, you know that.”

“I know, it’s just right out there on display in the fluorescent lights and disposable _everything_. They might as well be a buffet for this soul sucker we’re hunting – or whatever it is…”

Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s the spirit,” he chuckles, pushing his knee all the way through my legs and raising his thigh up enough to press against my heated core.

Never in my life had I known anyone who could flip my mood as easy as a quarter, simply by touching me, until I met Dean.

I arch my back and twist and feel him getting hard against my ass. He groans silently so I dip my chin and press a kiss to his forearm.

“You can’t tell me that lounge didn’t look like an elementary school cafeteria – cold and detached,” I say, feeling the morning’s stress and anxiety dissipate with every brush of his hand.

I turn in his arms to face him.

“Least they’re with their friends.” He drags fingertips across the small of my back and under his jacket that I’m using as a blanket. “What’d you expect, a jazz club?”

I smile up at him, into his eyes then scan his cheekbones, his jawline, and his lips. This is the face that gets me out of bed in the morning, the one that challenges and turns me on, the one that makes me feel like I belong, no matter where we are.

He continues speaking softly as he slowly slides his hands up under my tank top, pushing it and his jacket up and off. He barely bumps my tender breasts, but I involuntarily hiss.

“Y’ok?” he asks, dropping my top to the floor.

I nod. “That time of the month,” I shrug.

Dean grins and his eyes darken before he sets back to touching and kissing me everywhere.

“Well,” he whispers. “We’re in a cheap motel in the middle of Oklahoma with a mini-fridge that sounds like a freight train and dirty windows that don’t open more than two inches.”

He slides one hand down my body and between us until he’s cupping my covered cunt and squeezes rhythmically.

“That stoppin’ you from feeling what you’re feelin’ with me right now?”

I shake my head and draw a breath. I could probably come like this as delicate and full as I feel.

He chuckles and pulls his hand away then hooks it behind my knee to drag my leg up to rest it on his hip.

“How ‘bout this?” He grinds his thigh into the apex of my legs.

I whine a little and let my forehead rest against his shoulder instead of saying a word. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll start laughing like a lunatic or sobbing or something in between, and I don’t want to ruin the moment.

He drags kisses down my throat and across my collarbones as he rolls me to my back and slides my legs open with his knees, hovering over me.

“Feel that?” He reaches for one of my hands and wraps it around the bulge in his dress pants.

I nod and my heart rate picks up.

Dean nods back. “Just relax and lemme take care of you.” His gaze is bright and hot and makes me melt even further into the mattress beneath him.

“OK,” I breathe.

His wet mouth lightly sucks and licks a nipple while his fingertips graze the underside of my other breast. I can’t breathe right, and I’m shaking underneath him.

“How messy we gonna get?” he asks casually, trailing his lips across my ribcage and along the inside of my arm all the way down to my wrist as he moves down.

I try to catch my breath enough to answer.

“It’s heavy,” I answer hesitantly as Dean moves further south, brushing his thumbs across my hipbones. “Crampy… but don’t stop, Dean, please?”

My insides tumble when he swipes that ultra-sensitive patch on my lower belly several times.

Dean loves messy sex. We’ve explored several variations of messiness, too, but this is the first time we’ve had the opportunity to test the period route.

“Mmhmm,” he encourages, setting my hesitance at ease, as he lets his hands trace the waistband of my sweats. “Take these off?”

“Yeah,” I answer and raise my hips to give him better access.

The way Dean loves me shifts my emotional capacity into overdrive. I always thought Pablo Neruda was embellishing what love was all about for the sake of art and dramatic effect; maybe he just knew someone who loved as Dean Winchester does.

As Dean works my pants over my hips and off my legs, he kisses me everywhere, murmuring praise and affirmations.

_Beautiful girl… so strong… love your skin… your smell…_

He tosses my sweats aside and braces his forearms on either side of my hips then settles in to kiss and caress my thighs, inside and out.

His lips are soft, his eyelashes leave me panting, and his breath teases me further into submission. When his nose brushes against my underwear, I’m glad I cleaned up and changed because he’s going for it.

Dean inhales deeply and presses his lips to the satiny material with a deep groan. “Fuck, you’re sexy.”

“Dean,” I whimper, pushing my fingers into the soft, thick hair on top of his head and twining the fingers of my other hand with his when he offers it.

He flicks his gaze up to meet mine and smirks before unrolling his thick tongue to lick my cunt from ass to clit over the fabric. He keeps mouthing at me and dragging his fingers over my sensitive skin. At one point, he grazes his teeth back and forth and huffs hot breath against the damp material, making me moan and shake.

I am so turned on, I can’t help but undulate against his face.

Before long, he’s slipping fingers inside the leg of my underwear and running his knuckles down and up my slit.

“So wet,” he rumbles. “How’d you get so wet so fast, hmm?”

I can’t even look him in the eyes. Maybe I should in order to spread out the sensations, but everything feels _too good_.

He brings his thumb in with his fingers to gently work over my clit and I whine.

“Like that?” he asks with amusement in his voice.

I must look like an absolute wreck. I feel like an absolute wreck. Dean wrecks me in the best ways.

I can’t answer with words. All I can do is wiggle.

“You sure you wanna be down there?”

I feel obliged to ask – to show some concern? Maybe to feign concern is a better way to put it because he clearly doesn’t have a problem putting his mouth on me right now.

I smooth my fingertips along his jaw as he moves up a little to finally work my underwear off and toss them away.

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” he answers, settling back into place.

I look him in the eye again and he continues.

“I’m gonna lick ya ‘til you come.” He nods before beginning to honor his promise.

“Holy shit,” I breathe and grip the covers under us in my fists. “Dean.”

He wraps his arms around my thighs to keep me in place and scoots in close, burying his mouth between my legs.

It doesn’t take long – maybe a couple of attempts of Dean spelling my name with his tongue, murmuring sweet fucking nothings, and swirling around my clit a few times – until I’m yelling absolute nonsense into the stuffy air of our motel room.

I’m sure it isn’t the first time this motel has seen people fucking in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, but it is a first for me, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

I ripple like jelly in the middle of the mattress as Dean moves up alongside me, resting a warm hand just below my navel. His fingers imperceptibly soothe my vibrating skin and everything underneath as I come back to my senses.

“You are stupid good at that,” I breathe, lolling my head to the side to take him in.

He looks as loose and content as I feel.

I roll to my side in much the same way as this all started, albeit nude and sweaty and much less tense.

“What now, big guy?” I ask, tracing the placard of his crisp, white fed shirt to the waistband of his dress pants and across the secured leather belt.

Dean smiles, mimicking my actions along my jawline.

“Depends,” he answers.

I arch a brow. “On?”

“How messy you really wanna get,” he says, his lips twisting impishly.

“Good point. I also don’t have a lot of energy or brainpower to come up with new and exciting ways to woo you, so-”

Dean laughs, cutting me off. “Honey, I can top you eight days a week. All you gotta do is lay there and say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, but I’m not saying no.

I hook my fingers over the waist of his pants and arch up to kiss him.

“I dunno how much pressure I can take on my stomach, ya know? And I feel full of… ick.”

Dean makes a _yikes_ face. “Yeah, I dunno what that actually feels like, but it doesn’t sound awesome.”

Says the guy who’s been to Hell and back.

“Maybe let’s,” he starts, trailing fingers down between my legs again. “Just play it by ear?” He raises his eyebrows in question.

“OK, but lemme take this thing out first,” I say, starting to roll away from him and off the bed so I can go to the bathroom and take out my cup and get a towel, but Dean stops me.

I roll to look at him, confused.

“Let _me_ do it?” he asks with excitement and uncertainty.

Look, Dean is generous and kind and he is so sexy it hurts, but this seems like a lot.

“Are you serious?” I ask. My tone is most likely critical but Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

Dean is also a man who likes a challenge, especially when it comes to sex.

Like I said, he’s ridiculous.

But I’m also feeling all hot and wiggly again. The thing that Dean does that no one else ever has is to make every act, every space we inhabit, every new thing or kink we do with each other a safe and intimate thing; because I trust him and he trusts me.

“If it bothers you, then I won’t, but…” He shrugs. “It sounds kinda hot.”

Add this to the list of kinks I never knew I had before I started banging Dean Winchester.

I slowly relax back into the pillows and a few beats of charged silence hums between us.

“OK… get a towel?” I say, and Dean rolls from the bed and makes a beeline to the bathroom.

——-

We’re working on my third cramp-busting orgasm. Dean’s spooned around my back with my top leg thrown open and back over his hip as he rolls into me. I’m as open as I’ve ever been, hot to the touch and tender everywhere, sweating and whimpering.

Dean’s solid slide inside me is slowly, deftly, untangling the remaining knots of tension in my muscles, joints, and belly. He feels like the missing piece or the antidote or some other cliched phrase for just what I needed – always.

“You feel so good,” he whispers in my ear, holding me in place by that one hooked leg, and his other arm banded across my body like a seat belt.

We’ve definitely made a fucking mess, and it’s about to get messier.

“Shit, Dean, right there.”

I’m secure in his arms as I come again. It’s wet and I feel like maybe I’ve been struck by lightning, and my body shakes all over again with another, yet smaller frenzied wave.

I feel Dean pulse inside me and I finally allow myself that laughter that’s been bubbling in my chest to break free; a throat full of satisfaction and joy.

I’m slumped over and panting when Dean drapes a blanket from the other bed over me.

“Dean-” I slur a protest, and he shushes me, tucking the blankets around me.

“Chill out and take a nap. You earned it.”

I sigh and groan and stretch under the blanket. “What’re you gonna do?”

He struts toward the bathroom in all his nude male glory.

“I’m gonna take a shower, ‘cause I earned that, then go get us some food. Sleep,” he reiterates.

I grin, feeling my eyes heavy and tired, closing as he disappears behind the door.


End file.
